Ken Rogerson: My Introduction to Wife-Hating "Comedy"

 

Vaush vs. J.K. Rowling

 

No One Else Is Living This Way

Ghostly music swirled in Commander Bright’s brain, though the instrument of choice was whirring noises from his waking dizziness. He would have checked for a massive lump on his head if not for his hands being restrained behind his back. Any oxygen he managed to muster up came through his snotty nose as his mouth was obstructed. He wanted to wiggle around to break free from his new bondage, but the duct tape was too powerful, squeezing him down like a Gundam’s hand.

Bright’s darkened vision let just a little bit of light in at a time and eventually his salty eyes gave him the blurry, distorted shape of someone he used to know. Long gone was the innocent young man that he tried to push into becoming a true soldier. In his place was wide-eyed psychosis, a teenaged boy wearing not his uniform, but a wife-beater tank top, dirty brown pants, and a glazed over expression. Amuro Ray had gone off the deep end, but Bright had already known that the minute he could no longer move his body or express anger through his words.

Amuro’s superior wiggled around in his chair some more, but to no avail.  He was too weak from the dizziness and lack of oxygen. But he couldn’t find it within himself to accept defeat so easily. There had to be a method to Amuro’s madness. Something had to make him tick aside from the constant battle fatigue when he took his Gundam into any given war zone. Bright’s exhausted mind wouldn’t allow him to search so easily for answers.

“Guess what?” Amuro leaned his face closer to Bright’s. “I forgot to make my bed today.” The young man chuckled through his nose, a privilege not afforded to the bound and gagged Bright for fear of passing into darkness yet again. The joke wasn’t even that funny to begin with. Amuro wasn’t done there. 

“But of course…that’s hardly my only infraction.” He produced a file folder and thumbed through the pages like he was shuffling cards. “That’s a lot of pages for just one person. It’s almost like…you’re obsessed with me or something. I’m sure you have a lot to say about me.”

He pulled one of the pages out. “Amuro Ray. Sixteen years old. Gundam pilot. Received several infractions for behavioral issues, which include, but are not limited to insubordination, questioning authority (which is the same as insubordination, I don’t know why you’d put those two together), hijacking military property, desertion, aggravated assault, and aggravated mayhem. Has several psychological issues such as high-functioning autism, depression, post-traumatic stress…

“Do you really want me to keep reading this? We’d be here for hours if we went over everything. Wait a minute…” He looked around in mock disbelief. “There’s no file cabinet. How am I supposed to file this page with no cabinet? I’m sure it has to go somewhere.” He stared menacingly at Bright’s left thigh, causing his bound and gagged victim’s heart to thump loudly like a useless beacon to nobody coming to rescue him.

Amuro produced a staple gun from his back pocket and stapled the lone sheet of paper to Bright’s thigh. The Commander screamed so powerfully through his gag that his throat began to take more damage than his wound. His eyes watered and burned down his cheeks. 

“What? You don’t think that’s a good place for it?” More gagged screaming from Bright. “I agree. Let’s put it somewhere else.” Amuro ripped out the staple and this time the gagged screaming nearly caused Bright’s head to split open. The Commander cared little about the oxygen leaving his body in a gust of tears and snot. Amuro didn’t care either as he continued to taunt his former superior.

“Well, look at this! You got blood all over the page. How is anybody supposed to read about my horrible deeds when there’s blood everywhere? How is anybody supposed to judge me if they can’t see what’s there? This page needs to drip-dry. And I have just the place to hang it.” He stapled the non-bloody side of the page to Bright’s crotch and this time the screaming was high-pitched, like a female dragon wanting desperately to unleash her fireball. Speaking of fiery balls, Bright’s genitals bled more profusely than his thigh.

Amuro continued to taunt him. “Nah, that’s not going to dry it off. Let’s hang it somewhere else.” He ripped out the staple and Bright’s voice nearly blew like a bomb as he shrieked in pain. Seconds of torture turned to minutes. Minutes turned to hours. Hours turned to days, weeks, months, and years. In reality, it had only been a few seconds of agony, but it might as well have been eternal damnation.

The teasing wasn’t over, as Amuro pulled a bottle of liquor from the shadows of whatever room they were in. “Am I even old enough to drink this?” He popped off the top and did it anyway, teenaged years be damned. His innocence was gone long before he took his first sip. He held it out to the still screaming Bright. “Want some?” Amuro proceeded to splash the alcohol on Bright’s groin and leg wounds. The stinging pain was like a thousand scorpions digging into his body with their claymore tails. The bacteria was dead and Bright wished he was.

Amuro splashed the alcohol in Bright’s face, which would have spelt the end for his oxygen supply if the tape gag didn’t get saggy and fall off. “Stop! Stop! Stop!” Bright screamed. The growls of agony were replaced by raspy, rapid-fire breathing. The blood in his gums pooled up and gave him a nice taste of nickels and dimes.

“I’m sorry, what was that? You want me stop? You had enough?” Amuro slapped Bright and reddened his already strawberry cheeks. “Come on, Bright!” Amuro slapped him again and again. “You can’t grow up unless you get slapped! If you’re depressed, snap out of it! Isn’t that what you said to me?” Amuro suddenly calmed down, but not in a charitable way. “My own father wouldn’t even hit me.”

Bright shot a snot rocket on the floor and breathed heavily as he spoke. “You can slap me and staple me all you want, but your head voices aren’t going away!” Amuro grew sullen in his once arrogant facial expression. “You think you’re the only one who has war flashbacks?! You think the rest of us aren’t hurting just as much as you are?! This is war, Amuro! Everybody’s feeling it! You’re the only one who’d even think about torturing me over this! You’re the only one with the staple gun right now! No one else is living this way…”

Amuro backed up, stunned in silence.

Bright spit a wad of blood on the floor. “See? You’re backing up because you know it’s true! Torturing me isn’t a substitute for therapy! Never has been, never will be! You can kill me for all I care, but no matter where you go, you take the pain with you!” Bright smiled through red and pink teeth. “You know what the best part about all of this is? Your trauma will only get worse once you go to prison. All that time alone in your prison cell with nothing but your thoughts. Your loud…destructive…violent thoughts…They’re all yours. They’ll only get louder. And louder.”

Amuro clutched his brown head of hair and doubled over in pain. “Stop it! Just shut your mouth! I’ll staple your lips shut if I have to!”

“What kind of nightmares do you have, anyways? Bombs going off? Getting shot at with lasers? Nearly dying every single time you’re out on the battlefield? Oh, I bet you hate those explosions, Amuro. I bet you absolutely HATE combat!” Bright started making bomb noises with whatever was left of his throat and mouth.

“I said stop! No more! SHUT UP!” Amuro broke the liquor bottle against the wall, fashioning it into a knife. He slowly crept towards his hostage with wildness in his eyes and spittle foaming on his lips. “You were the one who made me this way! You wanted me to be a soldier! You wouldn’t let me rest when I needed to! You’re the one who fucked with my mind!”

“Yeah…I am…And you know what? I’d do it all again in a heartbeat. Except this time, when I slap the hell out of you…I’m going for a knockout!”

“STOP IT! SHUT UP!”

“Or what?! What are you going to do, Amuro?! You’re going to keep wrestling with your mind until it gives you want you want?! Good luck with that! Face it, Amuro…you can kill me…you can kill my whole crew if you want to…but your mind…will always be a shitty place to be!”

Amuro couldn’t deny his head voices any longer. He turned the broken bottle on himself and sliced his own throat open. Bright’s voice may have been raw from death growling into a tape gag, but at least he couldn’t compare his throat pain to Amuro’s. The once brilliant Gundam pilot now laid on the ground in a pool of his own biological sludge, finally free from the prison of his own mind.

Bright’s breathing slowed down and his neck stopped radiating with pain like a nuclear rod. Every breath he took was one of relief. The pain in his crotch and thigh was completely forgotten about during his moments of bravery, but not when he tried to undo his tape. Squirming went from being a mere chore to a marathon in hell as pain shot throughout his entire body. But free himself from the tape he did. And then he collapsed on the floor with nothing to entertain his senses but the boots of his rescuers, who almost came too late.

He lost track of how much time had passed since he’d been asleep in the hospital. He thought for sure he had slipped past heaven’s gates. But the only part of heaven he could experience at that moment was the softness of his bed cushioning his aching body. Everything else felt like being engulfed in flames, whether it was the wrappings on his wounds, the tubes coming out of his skin, or his pounding headache.

The nurses turned around to check his progress…and every last one of them had Amuro’s face. They even had Amuro’s voice. Everywhere Bright looked, he saw his torturer, who once took on the role of the one being tortured. It had to be an illusion, right? It had to be his mind playing tricks on him. That was the only explanation for this. 

In which case…everything Bright said about Amuro’s traumatic hallucinations came to fruition…for him as well. He gave away his own prophecy. The physical torture was over. The psychological hell was just beginning. Maybe taking Gundams onto the battlefield wasn’t a great idea after all. Bright wanted to shout his newfound insanity from the rooftops, but shouting required a little more vocal power than he was afforded. He was a prisoner of his own mind…and it would be like that for the rest of his life. The broken bottle sounded better with every passing day in the hospital.

ESPN 30 For 30: Nature Boy

 MOVIE TITLE: 30 For 30: Nature Boy

PRODUCERS: ESPN

YEAR: 2017

GENRE: Pro-Wrestling Documentary

RATING: TV-14 for violence, language, and suggestive dialogue

GRADE: A

Putting “The Nature Boy” Ric Flair in the Mt. Rushmore of professional wrestling is right on the money and I’m glad the folks at ESPN agree. Sixteen world championship reigns, a WWE Hall of Fame induction, a multi-decade career full of great moments, and the gimmick of a charismatic bad guy who drew the most fans to the arena throughout the 70’s and 80’s. Watching clips of Ric Flair showing off his expensive possessions, horny fan girls, and hardcore partying would make any blue-collar fan pay good money to see him get his butt kicked. Jealousy was a great way to get under the common man’s skin, but more often than not that jealousy would have to sit and stew for a while longer. Ric Flair wasn’t just a handsome rich guy with a big mouth. He was a technical genius in the ring and his long string of victories proved it. You want to see a living legend? You want to see a true wrestling god? You want to see brilliant character arcs that would work wonders in any other story? ESPN will make sure you get all of that and more. This was a superb documentary that could appeal to not just hardcore fans, but also laymen. Ric Flair transcended the wrestling business and you get to see his greatness on full display in this documentary.

But in real life, Gary-Stus don’t exist no matter how many victories a wrestler has. With the fame and fortune came drawbacks. Yes, Ric Flair got to party and have a good time everywhere he went. He got his extroverted needs met not just outside of the ring, but in it as well. But he did so at the expense of not being able to see his family as often as he needed to. He openly admitted to not being a good father and husband and it certainly showed in the reactions and emotions of everyone who loved him. Being a willfully absent father is atrocious no matter what, but ESPN made Ric Flair look like a flawed human being rather than a real life villain not unlike his wrestling persona. Nothing said against him came off as slanderous or detrimental; it was god’s honest truth. Every storyteller knows that creating flawed characters is endearing to the audience, but it must be done in a way that doesn’t turn people against the story. ESPN knew that Ric had his regrets about being a terrible family man, yet he’s still the living legend we’ve all come to admire. Everybody makes stupid mistakes and some of them hurt more than others. But it’s still a very human experience. In the end, that’s what Ric Flair was: a human. ESPN did a great job in showing these flaws without making him out to be a monster.

Easily, the most heart-wrenching part of the documentary was watching Ric Flair fight his tears while talking about the 2013 death of his youngest son Reid. Ric was a hardcore party boy who drank so much that it’s amazing he still has a liver after all these years. Unfortunately, that attitude rubbed off on Reid and he took it to the extreme, including pills and heroin into his self-destructive routine. Something the documentary thankfully left out was a storyline in WWE where Charlotte Flair (Ric’s daughter) and Paige (her opponent) were feuding over the Divas Championship. Reid’s name was brought up and Paige said, “Your baby brother doesn’t have much fight left in him now, does he?!” WWE won the award for Most Disgusting Promotional Tactic in 2015 from the Wrestling Observer Newsletter due to this storyline. It was such a pointless and damaging TV segment that Ric Flair would have had an even harder time fighting back tears than before. He probably would have continued down an alcoholic path if he was forced to delve into that situation again. Good on ESPN for not putting that 2015 storyline into their documentary. Raw emotion is relatable, but it would have been too much if they’d gone through with it. We don’t need more heartache than we already have. Shame on you, Vince McMahon, for green-lighting that angle to begin with.

For Ric Flair, wrestling was both an escape from reality and a detriment to his physical and mental health. The money line at the end of the documentary was that he didn’t want to be remembered as a father and husband (because he was bad at both), but rather as the greatest professional wrestler of all time. Due in part to the respectful nature in which ESPN handled all of the sensitive topics, they deserved the award for Best Streaming Documentary, another honor voted on by readers of the Wrestling Observer Newsletter. They are true professionals not just as filmmakers, but also human beings. They deserve an A for their hard work. Don’t you agree? WOO!

Scotty's Got a Gun

VERSE 1
All the talent in the world couldn’t save his sorry ass
When his sanity and dreams shattered like church glass
Beautiful colors scattered across the wooden floor
Heart of gold tainted and rotten to its frozen core
All the needles and bottles couldn’t erase his pain
All the nights of incest drove him bat shit insane
Calling it love doesn’t change the simple fact
That Scotty’s revolver is about to click-clack

CHORUS
Scotty’s got a gun! X4

VERSE 2
There’re only two choices for the rapist in his bed
Shoot a bullet in her chest or a bullet in her head
Give her one last chance to confess her mortal sins
But she says a prayer like God will actually let her in

CHORUS
Scotty’s got a gun! X4

VERSE 3
No one ever believed a word of Scotty’s story
Except for the parts that were intentionally gory
Matricide is the buzzword that makes the paper
To give that bold headline some extra spicy flavor
A villain to a world that never gave a goddamn
If it didn’t happen young, it would’ve happened as a man
There’s no such thing as a happily ever after
When the whole universe needs some laughter

EXTENDED CHORUS
Scotty’s got one left in the chamber
Scotty’s got some residual anger
Scotty’s got some scorpion venom
Which one of you fuckers wants to go to heaven?!
Scotty’s got a gun! X4

Matthew Must Die

My voices tell me that I am hope

I forgot to take my dosage of dope

Smoke wagon tucked in my pocket

Blast off like a motherfucking rocket

Roll into this rundown ghost town

The birthplace of slanderous sounds

My old foe has a price on his head

Bring him alive, but I prefer him dead

Some things are more important than coin

Like never forgetting that kick to the groin

Like never forgetting his evil laughter

And the bigoted slurs shortly thereafter

Has anyone seen my man Matthew?

I promise it’s all I’ll ever ask you

Drunk in the gutter is what you tell me?

Criminal rap sheet loaded with felonies?

Shoplifting and trespassing while stoned?

Burglarizing other people’s comfy homes?

Easier than shooting fish in a barrel

It’s time to make his gene pool sterile

Sure enough, he was a cinch to find

Drowning in a bottle of cheap wine

Scraggly beard no different from Chewie

The cigarette odor so thick and dewy

Every drug on the street in his system

Let’s find out if anyone will miss him

Pull out the smoke wagon and aim

Should I shoot to kill or shoot to maim?

Ah, who cares? He’s already dead

Among the living, but not in his head

He fucked up his life so very badly

That nothing else could be so damning

I give him another twenty-four hours

Before he dies in his own golden shower

I’m going home for the rest of the day

To my feline friend with whom I lay

Drunk as a Skunk

This would have been a perfect time for Sheriff Walt Magnus to begin again…if it wasn’t for the smell of alcohol radiating off of his body like nuclear energy. The burps exploding from his fanged mouth also included splashes of green spittle, a color that already looked horrifying on his scaly orcish flesh. The crotch of his blue jeans resembled a swimming pool, provided his bits and pieces were swimming in sewage. His red flannel shirt was glazed over with sweat, so much so that he had to air out his leather vest just to beat the desert heat. His snakeskin boots danced around on the sandy ground as he shimmied drunkenly from side to side. No doubt the Silver Star on his cowboy hat looked less and less believable with every near trip.

Passersby gazed upon their once beloved Sheriff with crinkle-faced disgust. Elven traders backed away as quickly as they could, probably hoping Walt’s drunken sweat didn’t get on their produce. Human families shielded their children, covering their ears with every passing burp. Even the shirtless, flabby-bellied, shit-breathed ogres held their nose in disgust as they waddled away from Walt. Despite his mind echoing with drunken harmonies, he could make out the various curses that his citizens said under their breath. Walt’s heart would have sunken if his emotions weren’t already numb. Instead, a vomit spill on the wooden steps of the Red Dragon Saloon would have to suffice. Now the citizens got the hell out of there in a big fucking hurry.

“I got this…I fucking got this shit…I can do this…just one measly arrest is all it takes…eh, who am I kidding?” With nobody around to listen to his monologue, Walt collapsed through the swinging doors of the saloon and face-planted on the floor, almost shattering his wide nose and a few fangs in the process. Almost. Drunken stupor be damned, he could still hear the squeaks of a rag cleaning off glass mugs. “Thank god you’re here, Murphy. You ain’t going to believe this, but…I need another drink…”

Walt grabbed the edge of a nearby piano and yanked himself to his feet, but not without dancing around some more. It suddenly dawned on him why the saloon was so quiet. Human corpses decorated the establishment, some bent over chairs, some sprawled out across the tables and the bar, all of them with blood pouring from their wounds like the tap itself. Walt could also smell elven blood, which was a daisy garden compared to the ogres lying about. Once his vision cleared up, he saw no sign of Murphy the Bartender behind the counter.

The one wiping the glass mugs (and shattering a few of them with her thick fingers) was a rotund anthropomorphic rhino dressed in a green leather apron. She gazed into Walt’s watery eyes and pointed her blood-soaked horn at him. “I ain’t Murphy, asshole. He couldn’t make it to work today. He’s taking a permanent vacation in the bowels of hell with the rest of these fat-shaming losers. It’s like they ain’t never seen a big woman before. Even these god-forsaken ogres couldn’t keep their flabby gums shut.”

“Yeah, I know how that is…” Walt burped before staggering and dragging his feet towards the bar, almost falling off of his stool as he parked his ass down. He could have sworn the deer heads on the wall were glaring judgmentally at him as well. Even the corpses looked like they wanted to drag Walt to hell with them, provided the rhino woman was right about their ultimate fates. “Can I at least have a beer?”

The rhino woman laid her palms across the bar after tossing the glass mug aside. “You sure about that, honey? Do you really need another bottle right now? Shouldn’t you be out cuffing people or some shit?”

Walt dropped his forehead onto the bar. “Yeah, like anyone gives a shit anymore. It’s always do this, do that, all without an ounce of thanks. You have any idea how many punks I’ve put in the pokey?” He lifted his head and tried to use his bladed fingers to count, but immediately lost track and chuckled. “I’m all burned out and nobody gives a rat’s ass. They whine and complain to me all day and now they’re fucking surprised that I’m piss drunk.”

“I certainly hope you’re not trying to pull a fast one on me, Sheriff. I might have to gore your ass too if you pull that negotiator 101 shit right now. Yeah, you’re one ugly motherfucker alright, but you’ve got that little narrow ass that the voters like. Me? I couldn’t sell a glass of water to a guy dying of thirst. They see my big ass and my big nose and automatically want to deduct a hundred IQ points. Ain’t nobody voting for me anytime soon.”

Walt burped again, spilling bile down his already messed up shirt and vest.

“Ain’t nobody voting for you either if you keep that shit up. Seriously, go take a bath or something. There are horse stalls across the street that smell better than you.”

Walt almost leaned back too far for his comfort. “You know what? You’re right. Maybe I don’t need a beer today. But…there’s no way in hell I’m going out there in that heat…not like this. You won’t mind if a sleep here for a few hours, would ya, miss?” He took the rhino’s hand and kissed it in a vain attempt to sweeten the deal.

She smiled. “I don’t see why not. Everyone else around here is taking a nap, I guess you could too. Maybe I’ll play something on the piano, like a lullaby or some shit. Or I could just stick my horn right through your fucking chest, either one would be fine.”

Walt lurched forward and a vial of amber liquid fell out of his sleeve. His eyes widened as his façade was exposed to the now growling rhino. She picked it up and shattered it between her fingers, confirming that it was indeed alcoholic perfume.

The Sheriff chuckled hoarsely. “Dina Octavia Lord…you’ve got this entire town scared shitless of you...Nobody’s got balls big enough to confront your big ass…But I will. Come with me, babe. You’re under arrest for mass murder!”

Dina roared a windstorm in Walt’s face, assaulting his nostrils with bad dentistry and knocking him on his back. “Oh, shit!” he said as he put his blown off hat back on and scrambled to his feet, bolting out of the saloon.

The thunderous sound of massive rhino legs charging behind him caused Walt to hold onto his hat and pick up speed. Everybody else scattered like cockroaches, screaming and crying while their arms flailed in the air. As Dina’s feet clomped and shook the ground, Walt’s heart thudded even louder and his mind cluster-fucked itself worse than if he actually was drunk. The footsteps pounded his eardrums like they were actual percussion instruments. “Just a few more steps…a few more!”

Once he could feel the tip of Dina’s horn piercing his ass crack, Walt dove through one of the horse stalls and covered up in the hay. The wooden walls exploded like dynamite once Dina crashed through them. Walt was certain he was going to be flattened like a pancake and crushed like peanut brittle. But then…horse whines belted through the stables and were accompanied by hooves smashing and kicking out of intense fear. Dina bellowed out of both anger and pain, her face and ribs covered in horseshoe marks, broken bones, and blood.

Walt covered up and cowered some more as the horses stormed out of their stalls, leaving a trail of shit and piss behind them, not to mention Dina’s thick blood. Speaking of Dina, she lied on the ground clutching her broken body and coughing up blood. Her horn even broke off to where it was a jagged mess rather than a clean blade.

Sheriff Magnus slowly stood up and pulled out his six shooter, aiming it at the wounded and battered Dina, who just suffered through a kung fu assault from a house full of frightened horses. “You see that, Miss Lord? That’s what happens when you try to use fear to control your enemies. When the people get scared, they do scary shit. In the case of the horses…well, we knew how that story ended. I know you don’t like being called fat and ugly. To be honest, nobody does. But if the whole town followed your example and went on a mass murdering spree…I might have an actual reason to be drunk as a skunk instead of doing my duty.”

Kneeling down beside Dina, he said, “Now listen, lady: I ain’t got cuffs big enough for them wrists of yours. No, that ain’t a fat joke, that’s god’s honest truth. I guess I’ll just have to hold your ass at gunpoint as I take you to jail.” He stood back up and motioned for her to stand up with his gun barrel.

Spitting out chunky blood and broken teeth, Dina said, “There’s no way in hell I’m going to jail before these jokers and clowns do. I don’t see you arresting the dickheads who signed their own death warrant a long fucking time ago. They didn’t have to kiss my ass. They just had to keep their damn mouths shut. Is it too much to ask? I SAID IS IT TOO MUCH TO FUCKING ASK?!” Despite aggravating her rib injuries, Dina found a way to reach Walt’s ankle. She got what she probably hoped for this whole time: suicide by cop. Walt shot her in the chest multiple times, putting an end to her reign of terror for good.

Despite having an obvious victory under his belt, Walt frowned at his handiwork. His body shook in anger as onlookers clapped for him. He couldn’t help but think there was a little bit of truth to what Dina said during her final moments. Walt spun around and confronted his admirers. “What are you fuckers cheering at?! This is your damn fault!” The clapping died down and faces sagged in somber reflection. “Hell, none of you would give me the time of day when you thought I was drunk. You were ready to vote for the other guy once you had enough of my jolly green ass. Shallow bastards!”

Walt ripped the Silver Star out of his cowboy hat and tossed it aside before marching away, his middle finger waving proudly in the air like a patriotic banner. These people were freaks too, but maybe Dina was a little too freaky even for them. Then again, so was Walt Magnus, which was why he stamped away from these ingrates in the first place.

It's Not Porn

CHORUS

It’s!

Not!

Porn!

VERSE 1

Lesbian ladies on a double-decker bus

Homophobic men spying on their love

“Give us a show and make the fuck out

While we snort with our big piggy snouts”

The answer was no because they said so

Barbaric men decked them in the nose

Punching, screaming, secretly creaming

Where are the police when you need them?

CHORUS

It’s!

Not!

Porn!

VERSE 2

Unconscious girl behind a dumpster

Rapist swimmer summons the thunder

He called it twenty minutes of action

As he grinned with sick satisfaction

Slap on the wrist for Mr. White Privilege

A new idiot for the concrete village

He blamed it all on the damn alcohol

But at least his career never had to fall

CHORUS

It’s!

Not!

Porn!

BRIDGE

The faces of hate in the Sunday paper

The violence never seems to taper

No abortions for the pregnant victims

The right-wing never wants to listen

VERSE 3

If they dress like “sluts” and you grab their butts

Don’t be surprised when they kick you in the nuts

A revealing cosplay doesn’t give you the right

To fill her head full of trauma every fucking night

The real world isn’t like the porn on your computer

This urban war zone isn’t a First Person Shooter

You weren’t the first and you’re not the last

To need to have your head pulled out of your ass

CHORUS X4

It’s!

Not!

Porn!

"Wrestling, Issue One" by What Culture

BOOK TITLE: Wrestling, Issue One

AUTHORS: What Culture Staff

YEAR: 2016

GENRE: Nonfiction

SUBGENRE: Pro-Wrestling Bookazine

GRADE: Mixed

The articles can be fascinating to any hardcore wrestling fan, but not if they suffer from the same typographical errors as the next volume in the series. Vince McMahon’s first name was spelled without an N, the word match had its A capitalized, the word to was all-caps for no apparent reason, need I name more? This wouldn’t be too big of an issue if the typos were few and far between, but they occur so frequently that I can’t give this bookazine a passing grade. A reputable editor with a fresh set of eyes could have easily pinpointed these glaring mistakes and polished this otherwise fine piece of reading material to higher standards.

Typos aside, the articles were actually fun to read, with the glaring exception of WWE vs. Internet Fans. To me, that just sounded like a bitter old man ranting and raving about the inevitable emergence of the internet, as if this new technology is somehow to blame for wrestling being as bad as it can be sometimes. It seems uncharacteristic of What Culture’s writing staff to put out such an article considering they themselves are wrestling critics and employ a mostly millennial workforce. Maybe this particular article author was an outsider from the beginning, I don’t know.

But enough about the negativity. Let’s talk about my two favorite articles in this whole bookazine. Let’s begin with Britney Pillman’s story about how her father, Brian, died of a heart attack while preparing for a WWF pay-per-view. To hear the author describe Britney’s pain as she grew up with a drug-addicted stepmother and without a loving father, it tugs at the heartstrings and makes the reader want to legitimately root for her life to improve. While Britney is in a better place since the tragic incident, she did miss out on royalty payments from the WWF that instead went to the drug-addicted stepmother Melanie Pillman. I wouldn’t wish such poverty and heartache on my worst enemy. We’ve all had to deal with toxic people at one point or another, but I think any reader can agree that Britney and her siblings need a permanent vacation from them. That’s what the author of the article did for me as a reader: put me in the role of cheerleader.

And of course, Adam Blampied’s undying creativity will always be my favorite part of What Culture’s past. Although his recent sex scandal puts me in a tough position with regards to his fandom, I can at least enjoy his vision for how he would book Rey Mysterio’s first World Championship run in WWE. No more will the lovable luchador be jobbed out to everybody and their uncle. He’ll win matches by the skin of his teeth, like a true underdog hero is supposed to. He’ll have credible opponents to put him over the moon. He’ll have blood-curdling storylines that aren’t nearly as despicable with Eddie Guerrero’s legacy as real life was. If Rey Mysterio had been booked under Adam Blampied’s guidance, I would have been a bigger believer in this ultimate underdog. But as it is…

The negatives of this bookazine shouldn’t turn you away from what is ultimately a fun read for all wrestling fans. Typos are easy to fix and even if they wanted to keep the anti-internet fan article, readers could just skip over it. There’s a top 100 wrestling match list,  a fantasy world cup tournament, a nice juxtaposition between Bray Wyatt and his eerie theme song, too many wonderful articles to name. Though not perfect, this work of nonfiction will get a respectable mixed grade out of me.

Kill Everyone Inside

VERSE 1

All I wanted was some peace and quiet

Instead you all gave me a drunken riot

High on crystal meth, tempting death

High on horse, morons out in full force

“Boys will be boys”, you gave me no choice

Than to bite my tongue, temper my voice

One of these days, you’ll push me to the edge

I’ll knock off every one of your fucking heads

CHORUS

Kill everyone inside!

No more football pride!

No more will I hide!

Kill everyone inside!

VERSE 2

The way you scream and sing annoying jingles

Doesn’t make me wonder why you’re single

Doesn’t make me want to shut up and play nice

Makes me want to set fire to you as a sacrifice

Which lucky god will get your body and soul?

A multi-armed demon or a killer so damn cold?

An old man in the clouds or an angel from hell?

Maybe they can fight it out, let’s ring the bell

CHORUS

Kill everyone inside!

No more football pride!

No more will I hide!

Kill everyone inside!

VERSE 3

You flip over cars, knock over street lamps

Cheer drunkenly as the plane crash lands

Beer and testosterone: a deadly combination

Wasted minds never used for contemplation

I want to break a bottle of booze over your head

Kick you, punch you until you’re fucking dead

Just for good measure, I’ll fill you full of lead

Save the last words, no one cares what you said

CHORUS

Kill everyone inside!

No more football pride!

No more will I hide!

Kill everyone inside!

"Preacher, Vol. 5: Dixie Fried" by Garth Ennis

BOOK TITLE: Preacher, Vol. 5: Dixie Fried

AUTHOR: Garth Ennis

YEAR: 1998

GENRE: Graphic Novel

SUBGENRE: Horror

GRADE: Pass

Reverend Jesse Custer, Tulip, and Cassidy venture down to New Orleans to seek help from a voodoo priest. Jesse wants to access the supernatural power within him in an attempt to find God and make him pay for turning the world into a bloody mess. It just so happened to slip Cassidy’s mind that a den of vampires want revenge on him for what the Irishman did to their master several years ago. Graphic violence is the name of the game for these characters and anybody would be lucky to make it out of this story alive, let alone without any gushing injuries.

As someone who never hits on women, I enjoyed the subplot where Cassidy drunkenly confesses his love for Tulip despite the fact that she’s loyal to Jesse instead. Alcohol or not, it paints Cassidy as a shady pervert who could be easily ousted to Jesse for what he did. The idea that this is even a secret is enough to make me want to read more. You know sooner or later the secret might come out. When it does, a whole powder keg of emotions will destroy the otherwise solid friendship between Cassidy and Jesse. Does the secret actually come out in this volume or will it be saved for a later issue? Maybe. Maybe not. I guess you’ll never know, because I don’t give spoilers beyond the basic synopsis.

Another thing I like about this issue of Preacher is the wisecracking dialogue peppered throughout. Yes, it’s raunchy and vulgar, but the author can write the dialogue without coming off as a teenager trying to be edgy. I would advise my writer friends not to try and duplicate what Garth Ennis has written. Coming from his pen, the dialogue is gritty and rough. Coming from anybody less experienced, it sounds sloppy and awkward. I don’t want to give away any of the dialogue in this review lest I break the PG barrier. Yep. It’s that dirty…and I love it!

And of course, where would the Preacher series be without the delicious violence to go with all of this nasty dialogue? Decapitations, mutilations, gunshot wounds, sex-themed attacks, and vampires burning in the sunlight: what lovely guilty pleasures! But the violence isn’t superficial at all. There’s a deeper plot beneath it all and none of that gets lost in the shuffle. We’re talking about a minister on a revenge mission against God himself. Of course there’s going to be some wild and wacky violence. Of course there’s going to be some three-dimensional storytelling. If all you wanted was violence alone, you could just watch a UFC pay-per-view. Word of advice, Dana White: don’t allow Jesse Custer on any one of your cards. While we’re at it, let’s keep Cassidy and Tulip away from the cage as well.

The fifth volume of Preacher is a satisfying read that makes me want to finish the series. I must know what happens with Cassidy’s secret. I must enjoy more crass language and violence. I must see what happens when Jesse finally confronts God for a battle of epic proportions. A passing grade will go to this exciting graphic novel!

Incelbordination, Chapter 10

Oswald floated through the sunlit air as a familiar feminine voice whispered to him. “Come closer, my love. Come closer.” The little guy half-closed his eyes in anticipation of the seduction. The closer he floated towards this voice, the brighter the sunlight became. Whoever was sending these vibes had the radiance of an angel. And then Oswald could see a pair of plump red lips calling for him and making kissing noises to further tempt him. He puckered his own marijuana-scented lips and prepared for the love-making session he desperately desired.

And then the little guy opened his eyes and saw those red lips were hiding a serpentine tongue and elongated fangs dripping with poison. Oswald’s heart thumped in his chest and his eyes widened upon learning this face belonged to Antero Magnus, whose cyan eyes rolled so far back in his head that redness became horrifyingly apparent. “Give me a kiss, lover boy!” slithered Antero before taking a massive bite out of his former protégé’s skull. Oswald’s brains oozed out of the bite marks while his skull cracked in half, rendering him lifeless in an instant.

“Oswald, wake up!” shouted a more genuine female voice and the dwarf snapped awake while inhaling a raspy breath. Sitting up in his bed and soaked to the bone with sweat, he noticed he was back in his dorm room just like Nikita Johnson promised. Low and behold, there she was standing over his exhausted body with wetness in her eyes. “I’m glad you’re okay,” she said. “You looked like you were having a nightmare.”

The little person wiped the blurriness out of his eyes and said, “I did have a nightmare. A bunch of virgins in masks came and beat the shit out of everyone at school. Wait a minute. That was just a nightmare, right?”

“I’m afraid not, Oswald. Our college really was attacked. It’s all over the media. I was watching GNN on my phone.” The dwarf tried to crawl out of bed, but Nikita placed a hand in front of him to keep him from doing so. “Don’t, Oswald. You’re hurt. Just lay there for a few more minutes.”

Oswald face-palmed and whispered, “Goddamn you, Antero.”

“What did you just say?”

“Um…I, uh…oh, no…”

Nikita folded her arms and asked, “How do you know who Antero Magnus is?”

“How do YOU know him?”

Nikita sighed and sat down on the bed next to her rescuer’s feet. She rubbed the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger before finally satisfying Oswald’s curiosity. “He’s in one of my classes. I’m double majoring in English and political science and apparently he’s majoring in political science too. Every single time he’d share one of his papers with the class…he…” She wiped a tear from her eye. “He just sounded so entitled. He felt like the world owed him sex. He was incredibly sexist on so many levels. I don’t think he’d even be happy if he found a relationship. He’d just continue the cycle of hatred. And the worst part about this is….my professor is too scared to challenge him because he thinks Antero will snap.”

“That definitely sounds like something he’d do,” said Oswald absentmindedly before backpedaling with a series of “um’s” and “uh’s”.

“Are you hiding something from me? How do you know Antero? Please be honest.” No answer. Just a nervous stare from the little guy. “Oswald, if you know something about Antero, you need to tell me. You heard those masked guys yelling things like Love Is Black and muttering shit about Chads and Stacys. If Antero really is behind all of that, you need to tell the police. That’s information they need.” Still no answer. “Oswald, what’s going on?!”

The dwarf sighed and plopped his head back on the pillow. “Antero tried to get me to join his group. He calls it Incelbordination or some shit like that.”

“You didn’t actually join them, did you?” asked Nikita with a shaky voice. “Oswald, if I find out you’re mixed up in this sexist crap, I’m going to…”

“I turned them down!” A long beat of uncomfortable silence hung between them. “I saw what those people are capable of. I’ve been to one of their chat rooms. The shit they talked about…it was disgusting. They joked about murdering and raping women. Although, it turned out not to be much of a joke, did it.”

“You need to go to the police and tell them everything you know.”

“…I’m sorry, Nikita, I can’t.”

“Why not?” Another beat of silence built a wall between them until Nikita’s eyes widened at something that appeared to be in Oswald’s coat, which he still wore in bed. She reached inside despite the dwarf swatting at her hands and pulled out several ready rolls. “Oh my god…this is why? You’re afraid the police are going to find these?”

Holding up his hands defensively, Oswald explained, “Look, I have a prescription for those, okay? I’ve got a severe case of depression and pot is the only thing that’s working.”

“Are you sure it’s working?” asked Nikita rhetorically. “Because I’ve heard your love stories in Valerie’s class. I’ve heard your poetry. Whatever’s wrong with you, these rolls aren’t doing the trick.”

“Sometimes they take a while to kick in!” snapped Oswald. “Then again, sometimes there isn’t a cure for what’s going on in real life!”

“If you’re not going to report Antero to the police, then I will. I’ll even put in a good word for you with the cops!”

“You can’t do that, Nikita! You can’t force your straightedge crap on the whole fucking world! It doesn’t work like that! I need that marijuana just to get me through the day unscathed! It’s not my fault everybody else wants to be a prick and fuck up my therapy!”

Nikita’s face transformed from desperate tears to passionate anger at the “straightedge crap” talking point. “Just so you know, I do have a dog in this fight when it comes to drugs and alcohol. My dad smoked all the weed he could find and on top of that drank every bottle of booze within a ten mile fucking radius. He did all of this when I was just a little girl. He’d come home from work smelling like he’d just bathed in raw sewage. And then late at night he went for a drive…” She wiped a way another tear and sniffled. “He never came home. Crashed into the river and drowned. I blame him for everything, but I blame the drugs he took even more.”

Oswald sighed and face-palmed once again. “I’m sorry for your loss, Nikita. Trust me, I know how that feels.”

“Then why are you smoking this shit to begin with?!” screamed Nikita, causing her target to pull the covers halfway over his face. “If you know how it feels, then why are you repeating this garbage?! This stuff isn’t curing you. It’s making you into a monster. You want proof? You’re worried that the cops are going to find this on you when you throw Antero under the bus. Well…I don’t have to worry about that because I’m not stupid enough to repeat the same mistakes over and over again.”

“Nikita…please give those back to me.”

“Not a chance, Oswald. I’m not going to let you fuck over this entire school after what they went through!”

“Why, you little!” grunted the dwarf as he attempted to roll out of bed and onto his feet. Because of his injuries, all he could do was plop on his ass and pull a muscle in his lower back. He screamed and coughed while pounding the floor with his fist, ignoring the fact that there used to be glass in his knuckles.

“I’m sorry, Oswald…but you did this to yourself!” said Nikita before turning around and marching away.

“No, wait! Don’t go! You can’t turn me in for this! They’ll put me in prison forever! I don’t’ deserve that shit!” The sound of Nikita slamming the front door behind her prompted Oswald to scream even more curse words while pounding the floor with both fists this time as well as his heels. He didn’t get much offense into the floor due to his agonized lower back, but that didn’t stop him from trying.

Just like Nikita before him, Oswald found an excuse to shed tears, but his own sobbing was loud and obnoxious enough to awaken his couch potato roommate, who screamed, “Hey! Shut up in there!” Except Oswald didn’t shut up. He cursed and pounded the ground some more until he was ready for another trip to the subconscious theater.

“Don’t do this to me, Nikita,” he whispered as he was falling asleep again. “Please…don’t…do…this…”

Dumb Asses

VERSE 1

A drug zombie with his Johnson hanging out

A drunken loony shouting gibberish so loud

Giving hand jobs in exchange for change

With a hairy palm all covered with mange

Giving blow jobs with infected bloody gums

Now you’ve got rivers of pus in your cum

These are the characters you see at a bus station

Or out on the streets doing public masturbation

CHORUS 1

Dumb asses should be a priority

Locked up by the highest authority

Locked up in a room full of white

Straightjacket fitting oh so tight

VERSE 2

Laughing at nothing but the wall in front of him

Shouting conspiracy theories about the government

Smelling like shit and a pack of cigarettes

Jaywalking blindly where the streets intersect

Everyone’s walking just a little bit faster

While the acid trip is his psyche’s master

His hand goes up an unsuspecting woman’s skirt

He squeezes so hard that it starts to fucking hurt

CHORUS 2

Dumb asses should be a priority

Everywhere we go, they are the majority

Buses, ferries, and even taxi cabs

Walking ain’t crowded, but it’s sure a drag

VERSE 3

I’ll never go back to this city anymore

Except to listen to music so hardcore

Except to eat at the best restaurants

Except to hold signs in the biggest font

A love-hate relationship with the clown town

For every breath of fresh air, a stain that’s brown

For every sane guy, there’re a hundred freaks

For every bus trip, there’s the jerk of the week

COMBINED CHORUSES

Dumb asses should be a priority

Locked up by the highest authority

Locked up in a room full of white

Straightjacket fitting oh so tight

Dumb asses should be a priority

Everywhere we go, they are the majority

Buses, ferries, and even taxi cabs

Walking ain’t crowded, but it’s sure a drag

FINAL LINES

Dumb asses should be a priority X4

Dumb asses!

"No Cure for Cancer" by Denis Leary

BOOK TITLE: No Cure for Cancer

AUTHOR: Denis Leary

YEAR: 1992

GENRE: Nonfiction

SUBGENRE: Comedy Routine

GRADE: Pass

With a raging wit as fiery as his lit cigarettes, Denis Leary unleashes his comic venom on a variety of topics whether it’s political correctness, war, drugs, alcohol, meat, or his own life experiences. Nobody is safe from his silver tongue and no topic is off limits. If comedy could kill, he’d have a higher body count than Henry Lee Lucas. Hell, he might already be able to pull that off with the clouds of smoke he spews into the theater. Lung cancer doesn’t faze him and nor do sensitive opinions. He’s not leaving the theater until he gets a tumor-sized load off of his chest.

In many ways, Denis Leary reminds me a lot of late-eighties, early-nineties George Carlin. They both have angry, rapid fire deliveries. They can make humor out of even the most dismal topics. They have a non-binary political agenda. Let’s not forget the most important part of this comparison: Denis Leary and George Carlin are both funny as hell. Yes, I do realize that Mr. Leary’s politically incorrect sense of humor might not survive in this day and age, but that’s exactly why it’s important for readers to delve into this book with an open mind. As long as you’re laughing, that’s all that matters. And damn, did I laugh my head off!

It would be nearly impossible for me to list off all of the jokes I found hilarious in this book, because there are so many of them. I don’t even want to give away samples of jokes, because I don’t do spoilers. But think about this for a minute: when you have a viciously angry chain-smoker onstage with an alcoholic buzz ranting and raving about sensitive topics, you know it’s going to be something special. He’s not being politically incorrect just for the hell of it either; he actually has substance to go with his style. Everything he says means something whether you agree with it or not. But even if you don’t agree with some of his talking points, you’re going to laugh anyways even if he has to die trying (which he probably will, given how much he smokes and drinks).

If it isn’t obvious by the end of the story, then there is one thing you and Denis will definitely agree on: live every day like it’s the last. You want that big ass hamburger with five patties and god knows how much cheese? Eat it! You want that energy drink that will taste like sweet tarts but feel like heart attack hell? Drink it! Cross things off your bucket list despite the fact that you’re not even close to the end yet. Hell, you might even be closer than you think, especially if you live in a fun and exciting place like New York, Denis Leary’s home state. Don’t let life pass you by. Enjoy it! Relax! Take a chance!

I’ll admit that I haven’t seen a whole lot of Denis Leary outside of “Rescue Me”, “Demolition Man”, and “Why We Suck”, but this book is a damn good introduction into what he’s really all about. Now that I’ve read the book, I’d like to see this routine performed live. I could probably hunt it down on You Tube or some other movie streaming service. I hope I laugh just as loudly as I did when I read the damn book! A passing grade will go to Denis Leary and his fiery brand of humor!

"Born a Crime" by Trevor Noah

BOOK TITLE: Born a Crime: Stories from a South African Childhood

AUTHOR: Trevor Noah

YEAR: 2016

GENRE: Nonfiction

SUBGENRE: Apartheid Memoir

GRADE: Extra Credit

Before he replaced Jon Stewart as the host of The Daily Show, Trevor Noah had a difficult childhood in both Apartheid and post-Apartheid South Africa. Having a white father and a black mother, Trevor was already the product of racist laws that could have kept him and his parents imprisoned for several years. He spent most of his childhood in hiding to evade the police, which included not being around his white father as often as he wanted in order to keep the subterfuge alive. With poverty, an abusive stepfather, and life in general working against him, Trevor still managed to keep his sense of humor intact with the help of his jovial, yet strict mother, who he credits as his number one fan.

This glimpse into Trevor Noah’s life is as educational as it is entertaining. It’s a firsthand look into how structural racism worked in Apartheid-ruled South Africa and how it’s still alive in the world today. Racism isn’t just about calling somebody the N-word or beating black and colored people to death. It’s psychological torture as well. The whites in charge purposefully divided their non-white peers into separate groups and treated them as less than human. The education was watered down, the living conditions were crappy, poverty was by design, and violence became a social norm. None of that changed after Apartheid was over, in the same way that structural racism never ended after slavery in America. You can change the laws all you want, but the damage has already been done. The damage continues to be dealt in subtle ways behind the scenes of politics. The one thing we learn from history is that we learn nothing from history.

Because Trevor grew up with an abusive stepfather named Abel, his memoir also gives us a glimpse into how psychologically torturous domestic violence is. Abel was regarded as a nice guy around town who would always help out those in need. That was the disguise he needed in order to secretly beat Trevor and his mother and get away with it every time. Trevor’s mother was met with skepticism from the police every time she tried to file a report. Abel would always be apologetic and life would go on happily for a while until the next beating. The scary thing about him was that he was always calm and collected when he struck his family. He wasn’t as psychotic as The Joker or dramatic as Darth Vader. He was just a regular guy with a good reputation outside of home. Even when he would drink himself into stupidity, he always came across as a cool guy. Those are the worst kinds of villains that are too realistic for superhero movies. Trevor Noah was haunted by this man’s evil deeds for many years to come. Abel is still walking around South Africa today as a free man. How sick is that?

Through all of the racism, violence, and troubled times, Trevor Noah never let any of those things strip away his individuality, morals, or sense of humor, all of which he got from his loving disciplinarian mother. She always taught him how to question everything and never lose sight of who he was. And that’s the thing with Apartheid: the education quality for blacks and colored people is significantly reduced for the sake of maintaining the status quo. Without an educational mother who bought him books and allowed him to explore the world beyond his impoverished home, Trevor wouldn’t be the well-informed man he is today. There are none so blind as those who will not see, and Trevor Noah’s eyes were wide open. He had a rough childhood, but without it, his worldview would have been watered down to where he could never fill Jon Stewart’s shoes, let alone live his own way. Trevor lives life with no regrets and that’s something we all need to learn if we’re to move forward.

The eye-opening educational aspects as well as the humorous writing style make Born a Crime a must-read for anybody who wants to explore the world without actually being in the crossfire of South African racism. Trevor Noah went through hell so that he could nourish the world with love and thoughtfulness. His story is genuine and his emotions are passionate. He could never be bitter, because bitterness would strip away everything he worked so hard to become. An extra credit grade is what this book deserves, nothing less, maybe more.

Vicarious

VERSE 1

Never get married, never have kids

Never drink booze, never smoke cigs

Never have sex with a total stranger

Never put yourself in fiery danger

Vicarious lessons are the best kind

Without them, I’d be lost and blind

Living through the mistakes of others

Dying free instead of being smothered

VERSE 2

Never take a job that will leave you aching

Never date a girl who thinks hearts are for breaking

Never go to a place where you won’t make it home

Never befriend losers when you feel so alone

Vicarious teachings are my curriculum of choice

I walk that graduation isle with a shit load of poise

Living through the regrets of my people

Dying with the credo that we’re all equal

BRIDGE

Safe and sound from the hungriest hounds

Feeling relaxed with my vicarious facts

Nobody can take this away from me

If they try, let them suffer and bleed

VERSE 3

Never try a hobby where you know you’ll suck

Never play a game where you’re shit out of luck

Never question the source of your infinite bucks

Never drive a car and plow into logging trucks

Never question your future, live in the present day

Never dwell on your past, learn to get the fuck away

These are the lessons from the wisest sages

Vicariously passed down to the youngest of ages

STOLEN LINE

Vicariously, I live while the whole world dies!

California and Colorado

VERSE 1

You’ve got traces of blood in your alcohol stream

Your biggest heroin dose put you in a dark dream

All your trust fund money went up your nose

Sucking up the cocaine like a vacuum cleaner hose

Wake up the next morning not knowing where you are

Shake the cobwebs to find out you’re in a cop car

Solitary confinement or the general population

No chance of parole or a suspended probation

CHORUS

Going to California and Colorado?

Your pipe dreams are not what they seem

Flying to the moon and the red planet?

Controlled substances tell you what you believe

Going to Washington and Canada?

You tell the lies and trust those who deceive

How about Seaside and Long Beach?

Get your ass clean and get a permanent reprieve

VERSE 2

Whoever’s in your ear is the one you should fear

Whether it’s a cult master with no charismatic peers

A drunken fool who thinks his magic is cool

A babbling idiot with diseases on his tool

ABRIDGED CHORUS

Going to California and Colorado?

Your pipe dreams are not what they seem

Flying to the moon and the red planet?

Controlled substances tell you what you believe

BRIDGE

All your potential went up in a cloud of smoke

All your arguments come off as a big fucking joke

All your meaningless words come out as word salad

Your story’s ending was marked with a judge’s mallet

VERSE 3

Was it worth the thrills and the temporary chills?

Was it worth the stacks of debt collection bills?

Was it worth the pain you put your family through?

Don’t say for a minute that you never really knew!

CHORUS

Going to California and Colorado?

Your pipe dreams are not what they seem

Flying to the moon and the red planet?

Controlled substances tell you what you believe

Going to Washington and Canada?

You tell the lies and trust those who deceive

How about Seaside and Long Beach?

Get your ass clean and get a permanent reprieve

Alcohol of Fame

VERSE 1

How could you do this to yourself?

How could you endanger your health?

How could you put them through hell?

Is it too late to ask for fucking help?

CHORUS 1

Alcohol of fame

Your career’s going up in flames

Alcohol of fame

You’ve only got yourself to blame

VERSE 2

Snort a little cocaine, shoot some heroin

Chugging Oxycontin and good old Vicodin

Popping Viagra while committing mortal sins

The pressure brings you to your dirty shins

CHORUS 2

Alcohol of fame

Your excuses are so damn lame

Alcohol of fame

You make zombies look so tame

VERSE 3

Everything of yours is going down the tubes

You’re fucking yourself with bloody lube

You’re smashing up your own hotel room

Wake the fuck up or meet your own doom

CHORUS 3

Alcohol of fame

Your pathetic stories sound the same

Alcohol of fame

Watch it all go down the drain

Yeah!

Alcohol of fame

Psycho visions swirling in your brain

Alcohol of fame

Watch you dying in the coldest rain

FINAL VERSE

It’s never too late to turn back the clock

And drag your sorry ass back to the top

Admitting you’re wrong is the first step

Lying to yourself is the bridge to death

You can be clean and start over again

Or you can be the author of your life’s end

Make a decision, don’t think too hard

The road to recovery is no holds barred

Open Bar Superstar

VERSE 1

Drink that beer like you’re dying of thirst

Let the poison set in then do your worst

Ranting and raving is what you’re craving

Putting up with you is considered slaving

You belong in the back of a police car

And nowhere near the cacophonic bar

Come back when you gain some IQ points

Realize the annoyance of your own noise

CHORUS

Open! Bar! Super! Star! X4

VERSE 2

You don’t have to be a nuclear scientist

Just have to sit down and be silent, bitch

You act foolish as you feel the drugs

I wish I had a gun with a chamber full of slugs

Use your fucking head before it explodes

Your body is dumped on the side of the road

It’s only fantasy, but it’s a damn good one

Killing your ass would be so much fun

CHORUS

Open! Bar! Super! Star! X4

VERSE 3

Don’t you dare get behind the wheel

Or a kick in the nuts is what you’ll feel

You’ve done enough damage for one day

To our ears and brains and it’s not okay

You stole the music from underneath us

The band drove away in their big tour bus

I guess being an idiot is punishment enough

For guys like you with your beer belly stuffed

CHORUS

Open! Bar! Super! Star! X4

BRIDGE

You’re an alcoholic, far from anonymous

Far from Einstein, far from an economist

Far from the fan that you claim to be

If you’re stealing music from guys like me

Evil Men

VERSE 1

She doesn’t owe you her body or mind

A definitive no is all that you’ll find

But you transform from man into monster

Your next move is an act of dishonor

You take everything she has in one night

Her virginity, her soul, and her inner light

It’s time to make an example out of you

Your punishment for rape will reign true

CHORUS 1

Evil men walk this scorched earth

Evil men give demons their birth

Evil men get away with everything

Evil men manipulate the evidence

VERSE 2

A slap on the wrist, a suspended sentence

Your victim is dishonorably mentioned

You used every excuse for wicked abuse

The raging public now has a broken fuse

Alcohol, clothing, flirtatious behavior

You act like you’re some sexual savior

You are a threat to women and children

If you don’t traumatize them, you kill them

CHORUS 2

Evil men don’t take responsibility

Evil men claim so-called divinity

Evil men walk away with smiles

Evil men cover up their guile

BRIDGE

The gravy train has made its last stop

Take your luggage and get the fuck off

You’re a dead man in the very worst sense

Your assassin doesn’t work for dollars and cents

VERSE 3

You’ve effectively placed a bounty on your head

For all of the violence and the shit you’ve said

Revenge is the greatest thing since sliced bread

Bang, bang, motherfucker! Your ass is dead!

CHORUS 3

Evil men will get what they deserve

Evil men won’t be able to swerve

Evil men get locked in a cell

Evil men spend their lives in hell

So this is how the story will end

You have no allies, family, or friends

Take your medicine like a man

Your evil ass is forever damned